


Storm of the Century

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Christmas, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You do realize the blizzard of the century is God's way of shitting all over you and your dirty fucking Communists, right?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm of the Century

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. 
> 
> For trolleys, who requested "trapped indoors by a blizzard." Originally posted on [LJ](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/422182.html).

"You do realize the blizzard of the century is God's way of shitting all over you and your dirty fucking Communists, right?"

"Brad?" Nate asked dumbly, inhaling the cold, hand resting forgotten on his now-open door. 

Then all the lights blinked out.

As entrances went, it was pretty spectacular.

***

"Don't even have candles or flashlights handy," Brad bitched. "Ill-fucking-prepared, sir. Civilian life has left you _soft_." Said with an appropriate amount of disdain for a man committed to the hard life.

"I have flashlights in my _office_ , where I was holed up before some wayward jarhead landed on my doorstep," Nate parried, climbing the staircase by feel, familiarity, and the miniscule amount of light from the full moon outside. 

"Guess it's true then: an officer never does tire of blaming the enlisted man," Brad drawled. His tone changed abruptly: "Your office, Nate? On Jesus Day? Really?"

"Storm of the century out there—you may have noticed," Nate shot back. "Can't exactly drive to my parents' house in that, can I?"

"Yes, and I also noticed you haven't invented a transporter yet. Such a disappointment," he lamented.

Nate paused at the top of the stairs. "Considering I failed out of chemistry, we should all be glad I'm not in charge of taking people apart and putting them back together again."

"But just think of the title for your next book— _Humpty Dumpty: A Cautionary Tale_." Brad leaned in, conspiratorial, and in the darkness it felt...too close.

Nate backed off, chuckling, hoping it didn't sound as awkward as it felt.

Fuck. A storm freezing the outside world to a standstill and here he was, all alone in a house with Brad. In the dark. With nothing but time.

This was a sick, sadistic idea for a Christmas present. No wonder Nate had renounced his mother's god—all he did was taunt Nate with what he couldn't have. _People_ he couldn't have. 

Nate carefully moved into his office and grabbed one of the handy flashlights, tossing it to Brad. He caught it like it was second-nature, thoughtless.

Even after all this time, Nate was amazed by the skill, the sheer competence of this man. Mostly the feeling stayed dormant, only to be sadly rekindled by the smallest things—a caustic e-mail, a secondhand story from Mike, even basic hand-eye coordination, apparently. 

Dammit.

The flashlight clicked on, lighting Brad in sharp relief. Nate blinked and shook off his admiration; that led nowhere productive. 

Right, so. Light had been achieved. Onto their next objective.

"Beer?" Nate asked.

Brad looked at him solemnly. "It's a sacrifice, but I cannot, in good conscience, abide good beer going to waste."

"Big of you."

"That way as in every other," Brad said, a wicked curl to his mouth that would stay with Nate, he just knew. 

Dammit.

***

Brad baldly surveyed Nate's place, beaming his flashlight around as they walked toward the kitchen, no pretense at all. Nate supposed that was a sign of respect. Or he just didn't give a fuck what Nate thought. 

Brad let out a low whistle. "I'd mock you for officer's pay, but pussy-civilian pay apparently adds an order of magnitude." Nate looked back and raised an eyebrow. Brad held the look for a beat, then smirked and continued on: "Given the prevailing conditions, fuck the beer. Scotch is clearly called for. I'm worth nothing less, I'll have you know."

"I don't doubt it," Nate muttered. Fuck, he really needed to reestablish his filter. He cleared his throat before Brad could seize on it. "While I'm getting it, feel free to snoop through my things."

Brad's look held something calculating, but it flitted away as soon as it registered. Then it was back to bland disinterest. "Permission, sir? Fine. Ruin my fun."

"Black hole of fun, that's me," Nate called as he walked down the hall to his study and the good Scotch. Might as well. It _was_ Christmas. 

Nate picked a bottle, grabbed a couple tumblers, and headed back. Brad...was not where he left him.

He supposed he deserved that for leaving a Recon Marine to his own devices and all. 

Nate cleared the kitchen, the dining room, and his study, just in case. That left upstairs, which meant his bedroom or office. Since Nate doubted Brad would be splayed out on his bed—life wasn't that kind—his office it was. 

Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned holing up there. Of course that'd pique Brad's curiosity. 

Brad had the flashlight propped up so it lit the bookshelf. He sat on the edge of Nate's desk, angled toward the light, leafing through John's revisions to their latest AfPak brief.

Crap. The split infinitive on page three would give Brad fodder for _years_. 

Brad didn't even look up at Nate's appearance, just started talking like they'd never stopped: "All flights out of Reagan were canceled. The airline's brilliant representatives offered to ship us up to other airports, but seeing as the storm is moving north, somehow I'm thinking that isn't the soundest strategy." Brad met his eyes, tilting his head just so, his opinion bright and obvious—oh, those misguided civilians.

Brad probably used more choice descriptors, though.

Nate raised his eyebrows and approached. "Questioning the wisdom of the strategic plan? I'm shocked."

"I'm getting in touch with my enlisted man roots."

Nate flicked his eyes up and down Brad's frame, dubious. "Should I leave you alone?"

Brad's lips quirked, but then he zeroed in on Nate's hand. "Not if that's Talisker 25 you're holding," Brad said, looking at the bottle in a way that made Nate's mouth go dry.

He handed it over. Brad ran long fingers over the label and Nate swallowed, looking down at the forgotten brief.

"Christ, Nate." His tone made Nate look up. "What? Run out of Port Ellen Anniversary release?" he asked, dry, Brad's way of paying a compliment.

"I save that for winning Nobel prizes and sacrificing virgins. Although a ghost distillery would be particularly apt for the Iceman," Nate mused.

Brad looked around obviously. "No virgins on hand. Here's yet another way life would be better if you'd invented the transporter already." 

"But then I wouldn't be here, so you wouldn't get to enjoy it."

Brad made an affronted noise in the back of his throat. "According to whom? I was getting ready to break out the lock pick."

Nate felt the smile tug at his mouth, the two of them falling back into their banter so easily. So easy to pick up like no time or distance had interrupted, like Brad didn't plague his thoughts, the 'what if?' ever-present.

"And get yourself arrested?" Nate asked, bemused doubt laced through his words.

Brad shrugged, dismissive. "Eh, I'm white."

Nate chuckled in appreciation. "You do realize I'm not Poke."

"Gabi will be so relieved," Brad deadpanned. "But stop stalling, sir. Surrender those glasses."

"If you insist." Nate set them on his desk with two satisfying thunks. Brad popped the cork; pure pleasure flitted across his face at the sound. Nate focused on the tumblers instead, watching as Brad poured, amber liquid somehow captivating in the odd light.

"We should conserve batteries." It took a beat to realize Nate had said it aloud. 

Brad huffed a laugh. "Just like old times," he drawled and handed Nate one of the glasses. His fingers brushed over Nate's as he released his hold. 

Nate's body pulsed at the contact, but he didn't look away from Brad this time, not that it did him any good. Brad's eyes were shadowed, his intent opaque.

"Some instincts stay with you," Nate said.

Brad tilted his head. "To instinct, then." He clinked his glass to Nate's and took a sip. 

Nate took his own taste. The Scotch opened big, smoky and peppery, hinting at sweetness as he swallowed, and then leaving a lingering saltiness behind. Nate breathed it in properly afterwards, scent reminiscent of sea spray, the vague salt-taste only reinforcing the impression.

When Nate glanced at Brad, he stared right back, glass frozen halfway to his mouth. The light accentuated his long, lean lines, arresting even just sitting on the desk. Maybe because of that. Nate licked his lips; Brad followed suit.

The moment stretched—and stretched—

And finally broke out into awkwardness. Nate felt the flush creep up his neck—Jesus fuck, was he ogling Brad? Here in his office? 

He cast his eyes around, seeking distraction. What had they been talking about?

Right, batteries. 

Nate walked to the blackout supply stash sitting on top of his filing cabinet. At the very least it'd give him something to focus on. Something that was _not_ Brad. 

"What do you think?" Nate asked as he righted the unlit candles, the fat kind that didn't need holders, the kind his sisters liked to give him as decorations or as ways to "de-stress." Like a couple of candles would alleviate the stress in his life.

Handy for blackouts, though.

"Think?" Brad parroted.

"Of the Scotch." He looked back at Brad, careful to control himself this time.

Brad tilted his glass, considering. "Reminds me of the sea," he murmured.

Nate made some noise, he must have, because Brad looked up at him—wide-eyed, unblinking, expectant. "I, uhh, I thought the same thing," Nate forced out.

Brad nodded, still holding that look. All of Brad's considerable attention, focused squarely on him...what did he do with that?

Nate cleared his throat and turned back to the candles. He struck a match, the flame flaring bright for a moment before settling to a low burn. He lit the candles in quick succession.

"You're pretty good at that. Must get a lot of practice," Brad mused.

"Uncle Nate is the designated candle-lighter at all the birthday parties."

"Good use of your talents."

Nate grinned ruefully. He left one candle there on its perch and took the other three, distributing them around the room. He placed the last one at the front of his desk, to Brad's side. Then he collected the flashlight and clicked it off. 

Candlelight had a much different effect than the flashlight's cold, antiseptic glare. Nate could see Brad better, but now he looked...softer. Approachable, still slumped back on his desk. Downright touchable.

Nate refilled his glass at the thought. He topped off Brad's, too. 

"Such a conservationist. You really have gone to the dark side." Brad's voice was richly amused, close, even if he hadn't moved at all.

"Waste not, want not."

"Let me know how that works out for you."

***

"Well, we've got the essentials—"

"Light and booze," Brad said, tipping his glass at Nate in appreciation.

"The really important things in life," Nate agreed. "Though I'm not quite sure what we're supposed to do now." He took a measuring sip from his glass. He could think of _several_ things, none of which he could actually suggest. 

"We could play _Candyland_." Mischief colored Brad's tone, making Nate smile.

"Sad to say, but I probably have that somewhere."

"Game night at Uncle Nate's place."

"Have to keep the kids occupied somehow."

"Better than the screaming that graced my flight out." Brad made an annoyed sound into his glass.

Something about that demanded attention. Screaming kids, airline representatives, Reagan...

Nate frowned. "You flew commercial?"

Brad stilled.

"Why would you fly commercial out here?" Nate didn't wait for an answer, thoughts tripping over one another: "You have no family on the East Coast, there's absolutely no reason for Brad Colbert to be in DC right now, much less in my house. And yet here you are."

Brad downed the rest of his glass, then smiled—bright, shiny, and oh-so-fake. "Well, sir, the truth is...I missed you."

"I'm not that important to you," Nate shot back. It was the truth, after all.

"Don't sell yourself short," Brad said, too softly to be a joke. And that was—Nate didn't know what to do with that, the silence stretching long and awkward between them again.

"I was at Quantico," Brad said finally, still quiet. 

"Guest lecture?" Nate tried.

Brad considered his empty glass for a long beat. "More like checking out a possible gig." He didn't look up to gauge Nate's reaction.

"You're taking a stint at Quantico?" Nate winced at the hope in his voice. 

Brad looked up at it, too. "Could be. If they offer it to me," he said, cautious.

Nate made a dismissive sound. "Of course they will. Wow—Brad, that's—I'm surprised," he admitted.

Brad shrugged. "Makes two of us."

"I—you'd be teaching?"

"Li'l cherry proto-lieutenants." That put a smile on Brad's face, a real one this time.

"Those poor doomed kids."

Brad's smile turned shark-like. "Can't imagine what you mean; I am a joy and a pleasure."

"And you've been talking to Ray."

"That deviant? Certainly not about pleasures or my involvement in them."

Nate chuckled appreciatively, then carefully studied his own drink. "So what's the hesitation?"

Another pause, long enough that Nate looked up. Brad finally answered, seeming to weigh his words. "I need to take it for the right reason. Or not take it, as it were."

"You should take it," Nate said without thinking.

Brad pinned him with a look. "And why's that?"

Nate's mouth went dry. Fuck. He hadn't thought this through, hadn't planned on saying something like that, something so...revealing. 

And of course Brad would call him on it.

Nate opened his mouth—

And had nothing to say. Nothing that wasn't, 'Because I want you to'—hardly a legitimate argument. Hell, not even an argument at all. 

Nate closed his mouth and just—

He let Brad _see_.

A muscle jumped in Brad's jaw. Something flickered in his eyes.

"Okay."

Nate shook his head. "Okay?"

Brad set his empty glass down, precise. "I'll take the job."

"Just like that? But—why?"

Brad pushed himself off the desk. Two long strides had him in Nate's space, suddenly close, thumb pressing at Nate's bottom lip. "Because you said so."

Want warred with duty; Nate couldn't decide Brad's future for him. That was no way to live a life. It only led to resentment down the line. "Brad..."

"Stop thinking, Nate," Brad said, husky and low. 

Brad's mouth on his was a pretty good way to do just that. 

Nate froze as Brad kissed him, so very careful. Time crawled by, the space between Nate's heartbeats long and loud in his ears. He moved his mouth under Brad's, kissed him back, just as soft. Then Nate breathed in, mouth opening, tongue tentatively flicking out. 

The world crashed headlong into real-time again. Their mouths were slick, frantic, trading too little air in the brief pause between kisses. Brad angled his head and tangled their tongues. His arms hauled Nate in, winding around him and holding on.

Nate made a noise at the shock of it, heat swamping him, dizzying.

The filing cabinet dug into Nate's back; Brad pressed him against it and sucked on his tongue like it was a limited-time offer. He tasted like Scotch and the sea. His cock rubbed against Nate's hip, hard and insistent.

Nate shoved him back.

Just...too much. Nate's brain scrambled to catch up. 

The candlelight flickering over Brad didn't help—swollen mouth, cock pressed against his jeans, want plain to see.

"Since when?" Nate asked, voice sounding ragged to his own ears.

Brad licked his lips, then rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Fuck, Nate—do we really have to analyze—"

"Yes. Since when?" Nate's eyes pinned him—unfair to use his officer look, but still—demanding an answer.

Brad blew out a breath. "Since always."

All that time, all those glances—Nate hadn't been making it up. Brad had been right there with him.

It was both a relief and an irritant. All that fucking time...

And what was he doing right now but wasting more of it?

Nate moved in and hooked a hand around Brad's neck, pulling him close again. He bit at Brad's mouth, sucked on his lip, and wound his free arm around, holding Brad against him. This time, Nate let himself fall back against the filing cabinet and he took Brad with him. Brad broke their kiss when their cocks lined up, the smallest puff of air exhaled into Nate's mouth. 

_Want_ swept over Nate, sharp, like smoke on his tongue.

Then Brad was thrusting his tongue in and grinding against him while Nate's hands measured the span of Brad's back, keeping him close. He grabbed Brad's ass and sucked on his tongue, doing his best to climb inside him with their clothes still on. 

Brad rocked into him with deliberate abandon. Pleasure skated along Nate's nerves in bright shocks. His fingers curled into Brad's shoulders and hung on as shivers wracked him. Fuck, he was primed and ready to come like a high school kid rutting against his best friend, control a distant memory. 

Nate dropped his head back, breaking the kiss. Brad moved down to his jaw, his neck, sucking on the soft spot below his ear.

Nate made a noise and tried to order his thoughts. "I do not—God, _right there_ —come in my pants like a fucking teenager," Nate protested.

Brad mouthed back up his neck and bit at his earlobe. "You do for me," he growled. He rubbed their cocks together and took Nate's mouth again, thrusting his tongue in time with his hips, unrelenting. 

Nate scrabbled at Brad's shoulders, made some embarrassing noise, and proved him right—pleasure streaking fire through him until he came, hard. Nate moaned at pulse after heady pulse, Brad riding him all the way through it, until he was a damp, sticky mess. 

Brad was just as far gone. He thrust against Nate so forcefully the whole cabinet moved. Then he was coming, shuddering, breaking their kiss to stutter out Nate's name. It made Nate's cock twitch pathetically—impossible to develop a Pavlovian response this quickly, but Brad calling his name in that sex-drenched tone defied all logic.

Brad finally calmed and pressed his forehead against Nate's shoulder, panting. "That was—that was—"

Nate's groan was pure agreement.

Brad raised his head...and stared. "Fire."

"Is not an adjective," Nate mumbled, confused.

Brad blinked at him, startled, before looking back _behind_ Nate—

To where an empty file folder was on _fire_. _Fuck_.

Brad got there first, flipping the folder and smothering it against the metal of the cabinet. Nate snatched the candle from where it had fallen over and quickly extinguished the flame. 

It was silent for a beat, smoke curling around them, hazy.

They both slumped and laughed, breathless, a sudden release of tension.

It became clear why fucking against a filing cabinet was ill-advised—aside from the fire hazard. Damp, clinging boxers reminded Nate far too much of war and stewing in his own filth, something he shouldn't have to abide in the pussy civilian world. 

Brad shifted until he pressed against him again, heavy and warm and mouthing at Nate's jaw; the rest of the world faded a bit. 

"All that time we could have been having athletic, mind-blowing sex," Nate murmured against Brad's temple, hands wandering lazily across his chest. "And we probably wouldn't be setting things on fire."

"Speak for yourself."

Nate snorted and nuzzled Brad's ear. 

"Athletic?" Brad asked after a beat.

"I'm very flexible," Nate solemnly informed him. 

Brad made a helpless sound; he spread out against Nate a little more and bit at Nate's shoulder.

"Thank Christ for blizzards," he mumbled.

"Are you implying that the storm of the century is God's way of getting us to fuck?" Nate asked with a grin Brad couldn't see.

"'Judeo-Christian God suborns homosexual depravity—news at eleven.' Wouldn't be the first time Christianity made shit up. Like Christmas." 

Nate dipped his head and hmmed against Brad's mouth. "Join Jews for Jesus in the morning. Right now, God wants us to fuck."

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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